


December 8th 2020

by Johnismyloveforever64



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, M/M, References to hospitalization, references to violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:08:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27966599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johnismyloveforever64/pseuds/Johnismyloveforever64
Summary: John Lennon and Paul McCartney are grandparents living in a Parisian flat on a quiet street.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 4
Kudos: 38





	December 8th 2020

**Author's Note:**

> Today, we remember John Lennon who we tragically lost 40 years ago. I, personally, was having trouble coping with this anniversary, so I wrote an angst-filled fic as catharsis. Enjoy  
> As an additional note, this work is unofficially part of a series. It's a continuation of "Breathin" a one-shot I wrote

I stood on the balcony of our Paris home. It was a modest flat in Montmartre. It was not the kind of home one would expect a Beatle to live in. The walls hadn’t been painted in decades, the kitchen needed to be retiled, and it’s only real modern amenity is the wi-fi. But it’s deceptive simplicity is what makes it the perfect place for the Beatles to live in secret. There was a chill in the air, which is expected in early December. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear an old rock song being played on an even older guitar.   
“Do you have a fag?” 

I turned around, and John was leaning against the door. I smirked. 

“John, you haven’t smoked in 40 years.”

“Just testing to see if you’re listening.”

“Did you say something?” John stepped forward and took my hand. It wasn’t until I felt the touch of his warm hand that I realized how cold mine was. 

“You were getting wistful. I wanted to check to see if you were okay.” 

“I’m fine,” I insisted, stepping back inside. The two of us returned to the living room where we laid together on the couch. As I brushed back his long grey hair, I could see a deep scar on his neck. My heart sunk. 

“I know what today is,” John said before I could say anything, “And I know you’ve been thinking about it.”

“It can’t just be me,” I responded. “You’re telling me it’s not on your mind.”

He paused, seeming to go deep in thought. 

“I can’t entertain those thoughts any more.” His voice was gravely. I could tell that he had been crying sometime earlier, perhaps no more than 10, 15 minutes ago.

“I know that you sometimes, not consciously, think about that night, let it all play out in your mind.” He squeezed my hand. “But I’m here, I’m really here, Paul.”

I felt tears come up. “You didn’t see the way you looked. When the bullet,” I stopped because I couldn’t pull the words together. “When you were shot, I saw something in your eyes I’ve never seen before, it was pure terror and despair. Your whole face went white before the bullet even touched you.”

He looked down, but he didn’t let go of my hand. 

I can still remember that night so vividly. I can still hear the sound of the gun firing, the smell of smoke filling the air, and the sound of glass breaking as his glasses hit the pavement.   
The gunman ran off, dropped the gun on the ground and disappeared. They found him the following day on West 44th street, hiding on the roof of an apartment building.   
When the shots rang out, the police came immediately. Our neighbors, people we’d known for years, ran outside in dressing gowns and oversized t-shirts screaming and crying. The doorman approached us, adrenaline took over as he made a tourniquet. All of these events happened simultaneously, and I just stood there watching it all unfold in silence. 

One of the witnesses, who testified in court, said that tears streamed down my face, but I don’t remember that. I don’t remember feeling anything but pure terror.   
I was terrified that I’d lose John, my partner, my best friend, and my soulmate. I was afraid of dying, and so I was afraid of what would happen after he passed. I was scared for him in a way I’d never been scared for anyone before.   
As I stood there, fear crippling me, I heard someone say my name. It was the police officer. 

“We’re driving to Roosevelt hospital. It’ll only be a couple of minutes.” 

He spoke clearly but very quickly. I remember John lying a few feet away from me, and I wanted to look down just in case this was the last time I ever saw him, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. 

“McCartney,” the police officer said again, “Come with me.” 

I was taken to the front of the police van and given a blanket they had in their trunk. I didn’t see them load John onto the van, and I feared that I was missing his last words.   
My next memory was at the hospital, sitting in the waiting room. I hadn’t seen him since he’d been shot, and I was desperate to see him, alive, one more time but feared it was too late.   
For nearly an hour, no one told me anything. I just sat there agonizing over his condition, fearing the worst. 

Finally, I was taken to see him. It was there that I found him alive but not well. He was in critical condition. 

I sat at his side and held his hand. I kissed his hand once, expecting a response, but there was nothing. He had this stone-like quality to him, unmoving in a way that felt entirely unnatural. The softness in his hands had gone.   
As I started to pull away, he tugged on my palm with his thumb. 

I barely left his side for weeks after that. As John slowly became himself again, I sat with him, talking to him, giving him snacks, watching telly with him, trying to make him feel normal. It took almost a month, but eventually, he recovered and was sent home.   
John spent months in physical therapy and eventually psychotherapy to recover from the incident. 

John used to talk about the incident all the time; we both did. But as years passed, it didn’t feel relevant anymore. The gunman had died in prison only 20 years after the incident and was buried in an unmarked grave in Ireland. His body was moved twice after locals discovered its whereabouts and vandalized it. I’ve heard rumors that locals have found it yet again but the cemetery has decided to let the vandalism trudge on. Neither of us know where it is, not even the county, nor would we like to know.   
The only time we ever talk about it is on the 8th of December, the anniversary of the shooting. But in recent years, neither of us have had much to say on the topic. 

“I haven’t forgotten,” John said more to himself than me. “Do you want to forget?” 

I shook my head. 

“I don’t think I can. I just wish I lived in a world where you were never shot, where I never had to see that.”

Darkly, John responded, “You could’ve lived in a world where something worse happened.”

“John,” I said sharply, “I can’t think that way.”

“I do,” he said it with a surprising amount of candor. “I don’t think about death. I can’t picture death, not really. But sometimes I think about the world existing without me in it, not in a suicidal way. I don’t want that to happen. It could’ve.”

“How could you picture it?” My voice was hoarse. “I’ve never been able to imagine a world without you in it.”

“I don’t want to think about it. I just know deep down that that night it could’ve gone either way. I could’ve died, my life over, done, dead at 40, but I’m not. I’m 80 and I’m married and I have two beautiful children that I’ve watched grow up. Regardless of what could have happened, I know what happened.”

“I understand,” I said softly, stiffly. “I just hate thinking about it.”

“So don’t,” he responded. “This memory, it doesn’t have to consume me.”

“It doesn’t,” I assured him, “It only comes up every once in a while.” 

“And when it does, I need you to tell me. Just talk to me, Paul, tell me when you’re upset and scared.” He stroked my hair. “You and I can suppress our traumatic memories together. It’ll be a couple thing.”

That made me laugh. 

“I won’t keep this to myself,” I replied. “Next time I have a nightmare, I won’t hesitate to tell you.” 

“And I’ll have the hot chocolate ready.” 

He gave me a very gentle kiss. 

“How can you imagine a world where you don’t exist?”

John sighed. 

“I thought we were past this. I was about to turn on Netflix and actively push these thoughts from my mind.”

“I just have one question,” I continued. “How did you get the strength to imagine a world that you’re not in. I’m not you, and I can’t even do that.”

“Honestly? Years and years of therapy. Look, it took a long time, but I learned to accept what happened to me that night and to accept the fact that I almost died.”

“So that’s what I’d have to do to stop the nightmares, think about your funeral?” 

“Don’t think about my funeral--in fact, I’m not telling you to imagine an alternate future. Don’t in fact. But you do have to accept the fact that I almost died.” 

“But I don’t want to accept ‘the fact that you almost died.’”

“But I did,” he responded simply. He then took both my hands and looked in my eyes, “Like I said earlier, I’m here. Had I not been, the world would’ve kept going. You would’ve kept going.”

“It wouldn’t have been as nice,” I argued, “There’d be no Beatles.”

“You’d still have three left.”

I scoffed. 

“There’d be no Julian.” 

“He’s adopted. You could’ve had Julian.”

“We wouldn’t have had our wedding.”

“Now that’s true. That was a fab wedding wasn’t it?” He mused. 

After a beat, I asserted, “The fans would be heartbroken.”

“It may be hard to believe, but they’d be okay--ish. Mourning doesn’t last forever, and they’d find it possible to listen to my music again, to find solace in the Beatles even knowing what they know, and sometimes they would even forget that I’m gone.”  
By this point, there were tears in our eyes. He wiped mine away. I thought that’d be the end of the tears but I found myself convulsing with sobs. “I love you so much,” I wept, “And I am so, so happy that you’re alive.”

He pulled me into his arms and kissed the top of my head. 

“I am too,” he said wistfully, “I am too.” 

Eventually, the tears stopped and I looked up at him. Sniffling, “Okay,” I said, “Now we can watch Netflix.”

“Thank god, I’ve been itching to watch that new documentary.”  
We sat back on the couch, lying in each other’s arms. Ever so often, I felt him shuffle around. Some people would find their partner’s constant shuffling annoying, but it always puts me at ease.


End file.
